


Fragment

by Legendaerie



Series: Render AU Sideworks [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Anxiety Disorder, Body Horror, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Render AU, Someone Needs Like Ten Thousand Hugs And Therapy, What Measure Is A Non Human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 15:57:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legendaerie/pseuds/Legendaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[set between chapters 4 and 5 of Render - contains minor spoilers]</p><p>He's lucky to be alive.  So lucky.  And he owes it to everyone else before him to live every moment to the fullest; but... But he still feels so weak, like he can't bear the weight of the millions of hopes and dreams lost in those who died before him.</p><p>And sometimes, he stumbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fragment

**Author's Note:**

> I FELT THE NEED TO WRITE A MARCO-CENTRIC THING because jean is renting an apartment in Cairo so he can be even deeper in the Nile and has trouble noticing someone else's problems for like at least 45k words into a story. goddamn it jean. (i love you both)
> 
> So I wrote this as an apology for missing last week's update + as a celebration for both 2k hits and over 100 kudos. Damn. I'm hella thankful. (sorry this is kinda tiny but oH WELL)

Sometimes he has dreams of what his life was like before the accident.

Not in the vague sense of everything being whole and complete, of his own body having two arms and two lungs that never felt cold to the touch, that bled and ran on the strength of his heart and not the power of a battery.

He dreams of life right before the accident,

He dreams of wanting to get home to his dad in Jinae and return the car he'd borrowed that morning, a little upset in his own way that once again his dad's gone back to a life of neglecting his son in his obsessive desire to provide for him.

He dreams of tearing his eyes from the road to the floor of his car, of those critical moments looking to find a tissue because he can't stop crying.

He dreams of the sound of a horn blaring as his eyes glance up to the empty intersection, then sliding to the right.

He dreams of thinking, quite distinctly, that he has the right of way moments before the truck hits him and his world suddenly explodes into a shower of glass and agony and motion.

And then he wakes up screaming.

Thankfully, Jean wakes up and is gone most of the time before Marco even wakes up, so he's not had to explain anything. But it also means that when he does wake up, and it's already happened twice since he moved from home to a storage locker to Jean's apartment, he's clawing at his own prosthetic.

His body hasn't rejected the robotic limb and more often than not it happily complies to his wishes, but the truth remains that half of the scar tissues that forms a pale and jagged seam between the two sides of his body - half of that are from those nights and those mornings.

And it's on days that those that he cries the hardest for all that he's lost.

 

* * *

 

A typical day for Marco across the board - meaning even after his father died - generally consists of a few concrete things; there is almost always something to clean, a nap to make up for lost sleep, and a story on his mind. He can't really help either of these three occurrences, since things becoming dirty is a fact of life and if it's not the dishes than it's the bathroom or vacuuming the living room or mopping the kitchen floor and it's less from the actual traffic and constantly dirtying than it is from just a need to be doing something helpful. The writing, too, is an attempt to contribute - he wishes he had the patience for a novel, but all he can do is type out or scribble the occasional disjointed, vent poetry that he tends to destroy several days later because it always ends up feeling too much like everything else he writes, which is romantic melancholia.

It's the naps that are more of an indulgence - no, that's not quite the right term. It's not that he enjoys them that much since, in the wake of his father's death and the violent upheaval of everything he knew, even naps can be plagued with dreams and night terrors. It's more of, well, he supposes it's the most selfish thing he does all day because sleeping often feels like he's wasting precious minutes of a life that he shouldn't even have.

He's lucky to be alive. So lucky. And he owes it to everyone else before him to live every moment to the fullest; but... But he still feels so weak, like he can't bear the weight of the millions of hopes and dreams lost in those who died before him.

But sometimes, he stumbles.

This morning he opens his eyes to stare across the room at Jean's empty bed, blankets left in a rumpled state of disarray like they always are. Marco usually wakes up a little bit whenever Jean leaves, but never enough to do anything other than open his eye and stare hazily into the darkness for a moment before he falls back asleep to the tune of Jean getting ready for the day. Apparently not this time, because when he escapes from the clutches of his nightmare, skin raw in some places from his own desperation, he's entirely alone.

Marco closes his eyes, exhausted, and longs to go back to sleep - but the darkness behind his eyes still feels hungry, like it wants to swallow him, digest him and chew on his bones, so he gets up instead. The kitchen is quickly becoming his refuge so that's the first place he heads, yawning and running his fingers through his hair as he sets a little pot of water on the stove to boil.

He wishes he had something to contribute by now. Not just to the finances, but to the world in general. But he's not... he's not really good at anything useful. He can cook and listen to people's problems and both of those were traits the various nurses they hired and his dad always appreciated. But for Jean...

Jean doesn't eat much. Jean doesn't talk much. And so far in the week and a half since he's moved in, Jean hasn't even been in his own apartment more than to eat, sleep, and look miserable.

It hurts.

Marco sucks in a sharp breath, trying to will away the swilling feelings of anxiety and shame stirring in the pit of his stomach. He doesn't-- he can't-- he is not going to deal with one of these attacks today. He'll fight it. He can do it. He's strong enough.

He counts to five, breathing in deep; holds it for another five seconds; lets it out slowly, with trepidation. Repeats. Tries to remember how to live, how to function. Tries not to think about how only a week ago he could have run down familiar stairs to his father's office, at any time, and... and just be hugged, or talk about things and never questioned for it. It was wonderful. But he can't go back now--

He--

He can't--

A knock rings out in the empty apartment, and Marco freezes, killing the heat on the hot water for his tea.  He exits the kitchen cautiously, walking those few still-unfamiliar steps into the living slash dining room when the thin barrier between him and the world outside stands.  Pressing his nose to the door, he peers through the peephole and spies a bored looking delivery man on the other side with a box on a trolley behind him and... oh no.

It's got to be the bed Jean had ordered. He-- they need that. He's got to answer the door.

Marco wants to throw up, but he takes a deep breath, thankful that the door hinges are arranged in just such a way that he can conveniently hide behind it. His hands are shaking and he's angry at his own weakness, which is starting up another one of those terrible loops where he can't calm down, can't do anything because he's so weak and so alone and so goddamn _useless_.

Breathe. Count to five, hold it in - let it out again, just as slow. Will it down.

He's okay.

Marco opens the door, shielding most of his body from view as he peers around at the innocent worker. The other can't be much older than Jean, with shaggy dark brown hair and a faint goatee.

"Kirstein residence?"

"Y-yeah," Marco answers, reaching out with one shaking hand to accept the signature pad. "Sorry, I'm... not dressed yet."

The man grunts in reply, then steps back as Marco retreats, hesitating with stylus in hand before trying to picture Jean's signature. He scribbles something that could pass as having a J and a K in them, and then the door is clunking him awkwardly in the side as it's shoved open further.

"Scuse me," and the massive box is wheeled inside along with something that looks like a large roll of carpet with a crank on the end.

"What are y--" Marco cuts himself off, still trying to hide, as the man rambles on.

"Some assembly required, just roll out the bed and crank the frame to un-collapse the mattress. Feel free to call the company if you've got any questions..."

He turns, and time slows down for a moment as his eyes lock with Marco's, and then slide over.

The reaction is delayed, then explosive - the man jumps back, recoils in time with Marco and it's like a bomb went off between them. The need to escape, the fear is something he'd never seen in someone else's eyes before, and unthinkingly Marco takes a step forward, out from hiding entirely.  His instinct is to help, to explain, to understand the cause of this sudden panic even though a sinuous voice is whispering in the back of his mind.   _You look like a monster_.

Marco speaks first.  "Wait, what's--"

"G-get away from me!" The man's voice breaks as he staggers backwards, and he fumbles in his back pocket until he pulls out a small device that crackles to life. Marco goes absolutely still.

So this is why... why he had to stand inside. This was the reaction he'd get. Not just from Jean. This was... this was his life now.

He doesn't want this.

No, he doesn't want to live like this, no - he steps forward, resolution hard in his eye, because it's not fair he looks this way, it's not his fault and if he can just explain that he means no harm than he can--

He reels backwards like he's been punched, and moments later a bolt of electricity like from a broken wire shoots through his body - it burns and hollows him out. He feels his body hit the floor but he keeps going, falling, sinking into a pit of blackness.  His vision swirls and he tries to reach for something to cling to, something to keep him afloat in this sudden terrible chill but he slips away without a sound, aborted apology dying in his mouth.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up from the first dreamless sleep in weeks, feeling exhausted and weak. He lets his eye fall closed moments later, trying to focus on where he is. The surface beneath him smells like dust and metal and maybe a kiss of something that makes his stomach lurch with an inexplicable rush of affection.  He's on a couch.  Jean's couch.  He's safe.

The voice he can hear in the background is inarticulate noise to him and he lays still, trying to collect himself. It's Jean, of course, and he's arguing with someone over the phone.

"... fucking _care_ , but if he-- if _it's_ broken because of your delivery boy panicked, you better bet your ass there's a lawsuit headed your way!"

There's another pause, silence broken by the sounds of movement, then fingers caress the side of his neck, feeling for a pulse. Marco's heart jumps into overtime at the contact and just as soon, the touch retracts. He swallows back the sudden pain at the loss, the desire to sit up and beg for even that fleeting contact again because he just misses so much and it's been so long since--

"Yeah, well, you can bet this is the last time I'm ordering from this company again. Go tell your taser-happy cockmuncher to go _suck his own dick_."

Then Jean lets out a puff of breath, and Marco rolls over on his back, staring up into cold golden eyes as the apartment's owner looms over him with a face like thunder.

"What the hell were you thinking, Bodt?"

... Right.

Cold settles into Marco's chest again, freezing the sensation of warmth that had started to curl through his chest.

"Sorry, I... I tried to hide behind the door but he looked anyway and..."

He trails off, a flicker of a frown crossing his face.

It occurs to Marco that he doesn't know entirely what he did wrong. He didn't make any sudden movements, and if he hadn't answered the door they would have just tried the same thing the next day when Jean was again at work. So then, why...

"I'm sorry," he repeats, blinking up at Jean. Above him, the dark eyebrows relax slightly as he glances away.

"It's all right. Well, I mean... are _you_ all right? Gave me quite a shock to come home to my door unlocked and you unconscious on the floor.  No pun intended," he adds, sounding more like the Jean from their childhood.

"Sorry. I'm... I think I'm all right." He's still breathing, so he thinks his mechanical parts are all right, but there's a sore spot on his ribs that he fingers with his human hand. Jean's attention rivets on the spot but Marco finds the spot already bandaged and he lets his arm fall away.

The blond's only reaction is a curt, "good." Then Jean retreats from his field of vision. Marco takes in another slow breath.

Lets it out.

And when he rises from the couch, he feels heavy behind his emotional armor and doesn't miss the feel of Jean's hands on his skin again.

The box and mattress had been moved to the cramped bedroom somehow, clothes shoved overflowing into the closet as the entire floor became dedicated to the project of bed building. Jean twirls a socket wrench in his hand as he surveys the modest pile of bolts and lengths of metal, the click-click-click like the cock of a pistol, and it makes Marco freeze. Jean glances over his shoulder, eyes moving in the same path as the delivery man - eyes lock then slide over to Marco's right side - but his reaction is minimal.

"Up already?"

"I told you I was all right," Marco insists, but doesn't step any closer until Jean shrugs.

"How much can you lift?"

The brunet grimaces. "Not much. I can't put too much strain on this arm," and he flexes his replacement limb, "but I've got a pretty mean left."

Exposed to air, the weak joke withers and dies without a reaction. Jean turns back to the task before him.

"Just... chill out here for a bit, then. I should have it under control, but stick around or something."

"Great," and Marco's actually grateful to lean against the doorway. He's still feeling really weak but he wants to help somehow - his legs shake before he shifts his weight, and he ends up sliding awkwardly down the frame, wincing at the feel of his skin being tugged by the friction.

Jean's leaning over the instructions on his hands and knees, and Marco's eyes skim over the worn patches on the back pockets, unwilling to let his gaze linger. So instead he lets them flutter closed again and dozes to the sound of Jean working, the occasional clang keeping him from ever actually sleeping. A few minutes pass in this way, and he lets them roll by without comment.

A particularly loud clang makes Marco open his eyes and Jean's shaking his hand, teeth gritted around a curse.

"Are you hurt?"

"Nah," Jean dismisses it, glancing sideways. "I'm good."

There's still a barrier between them. He can feel it, and Marco settles against the doorframe, still feeling tired and broken.

"Thanks for this, though. I'm... sorry you're going to all this trouble for me."

Jean grunts. "I'll be glad to have my couch back," he states in a tone so flat you could write on it. Too flat for Marco to tell if he's kidding or not, so he holds his silence as Jean reaches for the instructions again. The muscles in his arms and shoulders shift under his tight shirt and it makes Marco... uncomfortable. Ashamed of his softer form. Afraid of the lingering traces of his own affection. Wary of giving those embers even the faintest gasp of air.

"I'm sorry you got tased over it," Jean adds, eyes flicking back up to Marco's face for a moment afresh before he sits up and runs his fingers along a length of metal, feeling for something perhaps. And there's not... not really anything he can say to that, so Marco once more holds his tongue and indulges in one selfish thought.

He's glad he's alive, even like this - because he's thankful to see Jean again after all these years. Even like this with his own body mutilated and broken and cobbled back together, fixed but still he feels so broken.

If this is a dream, it may not be a perfect one, but he doesn't want to wake up.


End file.
